What a Night!
by SSSP-shhh
Summary: When John and Sherlock come back home from the encounter with Moriarty, John rants, argues, and rants some more. Sherlock then has a proposition for him. Sherlock/John slash. Lemon.


"What a night, eh, Sherlock?" John sighed, taking off his jacket and setting it on the hook by the door. It smelled faintly of chlorine.

As predicted, there was no indication from Sherlock that John had spoken. Sherlock merely walked into the room, apparently in deep thought. He unhooked his scarf and draped it over a nearby chair (earning a respective sigh from John).

"'Why, yes it was, John. Moriarty is quite the deranged psychopath,'" John answered himself. Talking to himself when around anyone else, that might have been disconcerting.

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected absentmindedly.

"Oh, right then," John rolled his eyes, and headed for the kitchen of their flat. John's thoughts turned toward food. Perhaps there is a bit of that one Chinese dish left—or a decapitated head in the fridge, that too. "Why is this head still in the fridge?"

Sherlock was now pacing about the room, mumbling to himself. "Moriarty is quite clever. He wouldn't have…" Sherlock suddenly spun to face John. "John! Take off your clothes!"

The fridge slammed shut. "Excuse me?"

"Don't you see? Moriarty is clever! Your clothes, your clothes!" Sherlock began striding briskly across the room.

"Whoa, whoa! Hang on," John said, confusedly. "Moriarty wants me to take off my clothes?" Sherlock reached John and frantically began to unbutton John's shirt. "That's not necessary! Talk to me, Sherlock."

"No time." Sherlock shook his head vigorously, John's shirt almost fully unbuttoned. He ran behind John, yanking the shirt with him, determined to rip it from John's shoulders. John (being rather a connoisseur of layered clothing) stood in the middle of the kitchen with a thin wife beater as his only torso-covering.

There was a clatter from next to John; Sherlock had grabbed a knife from the countertop. "Hey, hey!" John objected.

"Oh, hush I'm merely cutting your shirt," Sherlock had that annoying, condescending tone to his voice that he frequently acquired when he though John was acting like an idiot. John heard the rip of fabric from his protesting shirt.

John gave up. He sighed, dropped his hands to his sides, and waited for Sherlock to finish whatever crazy idea he had. Sherlock muttered to himself again, prodding John's exposed back. "If not here, then where—Aha! Brilliant He's brilliant!" Sherlock walked around to face John again. The knife clattered to the ground.

"Pants off," Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly.

"Sorry?" John looked at Sherlock with his you've-got-to-be-kidding-me face.

Sherlock enunciated slowly, "Was I not clear enough? Take your pants off."

"I am not going to take my pants off! What possible reason could you have for even—hey don't touch that!"

Sherlock had bent down, hands on John's legs, squeezing, as if searching for something. "I did not order a pat-down, so I would appreciate it if you—hey!" Sherlock slapped John's prying hands away, still mumbling.

Now, contrary to popular belief, John considered himself to be straight. (Well, mostly straight. He'd had those one-offs at university when inebriated, but everyone had those, didn't they?) Nevertheless, even the straightest man in the world (John mused) would be at least somewhat affected if a determined individual were adamant about getting his hands in places where said hands stimulated certain pleasure areas. And said pleasure areas were definitely stimulated. John just hoped that it would pass Sherlock's detection.

The seeking hands on John's legs suddenly stilled. "John." There was a slight pause. "Do you have an erection?"

Damn.

"Err… I-I…" John was stuttering. Since when did he stutter?

Sherlock stood up slowly, gradually removing his hands from John's pants line.

"Err… While I'm flattered at your suggestion, I would say I'm rather married to my work and that—" Sherlock started backing away.

"Oh for God's sake!" John pulled his pants back up (How did they end up at his ankles anyway?). "Yes! Yes I do have an erection. It's been awhile, OK? That outing a few weeks ago was supposed to get me into bed with Sarah, but _someone_ decided to third-wheel our date, so now I'm left hanging!" John huffed as if he had just run a kilometer.

Sherlock paused and pursed his lips, as if observing a mildly interesting TV program.

"And what's more, you've now ripped my shirt! That took quite an argument with the till machine to buy!"

"Correction: I sliced your shirt."

"Whatever! I'm done with this, you know! My therapist says I need to see some women, get back into civilian life, and who do I end up with? A 'high-functioning sociopath' that can't take a hint." John scoffed, picked up his shirt off of the floor, and headed toward the door.

As John was about to leave, he thought he heard Sherlock say something. He turned on his heel. "What?"

"I said, 'So you want to have sex?'"

There was a pregnant pause.

John lowered his hands. "Are you suggesting-?"

"I am suggesting a mutually beneficial relationship. You satisfy your sexual instincts while I conduct research on the pros and cons of intercourse. It will be quite clean cut."

John regarded Sherlock as if he had sprouted antennae.

"You… sex… me…?" John's brain froze.

"Obviously, that is what I am implying. Need I say it more clearly? Alright then: John, kindly would you make your way to the bedroom and engage in copulation with me?"

John stood in the doorway.

"I had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this." Sherlock strode over to the door. He put his hands on the doorframe, towering over John, invading his personal space. John looked up at him, still uncomprehending. Sherlock leaned down, and gently pressed his lips to John's.

John quickly defrosted. Oh, what the hell?

In a flurry of movement John had thrown his coat on the floor and reached up to grab onto Sherlock's thick, dark locks. He frantically kissed every inch of Sherlock's face and neck, every bit he could reach, sometimes lips on lips, mostly not. Sherlock, smug, wrapped his arms around John's (still bare) back, and pulled him closer. Lip met lip, body met body, and finally, erection met erection.

Sherlock's shirt was hastily discarded as the couple shuffled over to the nearest soft surface. John ran his hands around Sherlock's muscled back and sides as Sherlock went to unbutton John's pants. John's shaft popped free from its constraints, showing to be a lot more eager to _do_ than John had originally implied.

Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around John's cock and stroked. Fast, slow, fast and John's breath quickened, hands squeezing tighter around Sherlock's midsection. In a subtle turn of body, Sherlock bumped the soft backs of John's knees on the couch cushions, effectively pushing him over. He caught the kiss whilst bending down to put his hands on either side of John.

"Who said you were going to be top?" John suddenly complained. "I've actually had some experience so—"

"Which is precisely why you are going to be bottom," Sherlock stated, ending the argument.

John lay flat on the couch as Sherlock divested himself of his troublesome trousers and grabbed a bottle of lube from a nearby drawer.

"Where did you get that?" John scrutinized Sherlock.

"Need it for experiments," Sherlock dismissed. "Now, are we going to have sex or not?"

"Alright, alright."

Sherlock held a relentless pace, thrusting in and out evenly, but so rapidly that it brought both to a climax sooner than expected. John held on to Sherlock's hair as his spot inside was hit dead-on for the first time in his life. Both panted and sweated as if the room was as hot as a furnace and small moans came from both men, thrusting against each other to get their pleasure.

"Sh-Sherlock!"

"John."

White stars grazed across their vision as they came simultaneously into the night. Baker Street was calm as they lay on the couch, panting slightly as they came down from their emotional high. They lay subdued in their own musings. Upon first reflecting upon this night, John thought, he realized it was the beginning of Sherlock's and his relationship. Yet, after more inspection, John became aware that this night was not the beginning of their relationship, but more of a continuation. Hadn't they been skirting around each other for months now? Tonight was just an acknowledgement of feelings both knew but chose to bury deep in their subconscious. After a while, a thought occurred to him.

"So… What were you looking for earlier… that started this whole… thing?"

Sherlock lay quiet for a moment. "Naturally, I assumed Moriarty had planted a small explosive device on you of some kind – something barely detectable – that he could detonate at a range." He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. "But now we know that's not true." Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. Was that a faint glimmer of mirth?

"Was that flirting? An allusion that you have checked _everywhere_?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock grinned his cheeky, flirty wink and kissed John on the lips.

"So where do we go from here?"

Sherlock pondered a moment. "We go where we've always been. I solve murders; you're my trusted Doctor. We occasionally have sex. It's not all that different, really."

"I guess you're right." John smiled softly. "So… Your bed is right across the room. Would you like to take your research there?"

"Of course," Sherlock said smartly. "That was going to be my suggestion entirely." Mischievous smiles were exchanged.

"Ready to go all night?"

"Definitely."


End file.
